


By a Faithful Hand

by mrkinch



Category: The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Númenor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-11
Updated: 2011-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:38:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkinch/pseuds/mrkinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isildur and the White Tree in the Second Age</p>
            </blockquote>





	By a Faithful Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> Thank you, [stewardess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/pseuds/stewardess) and [therev](http://archiveofourown.org/users/therev).

Isildur stepped resolutely past the high wall, the unfamiliar armor uneasy on his shoulders, and stood in wonder. It had been long since he had looked upon the White Tree, for those who hated it now denied the sight to all others. In the deep shadows it gleamed but faintly, for it was the tree's winter and it had no bloom and few leaves. Isildur’s heart, even filled with the dread of discovery, leapt to see it, shapely and beautiful as he remembered from childhood in the days of Tar Palantir. He set himself to pace the courtyard as the guard he had waylaid would have done, and at length he could make out amongst the bare branches a single fruit. It hung just before him, as though the tree were offering the small, silvery globe to his hand. He held his palm beneath it and it came away at once, and he marveled at its weight and its furred skin. Secreting away the precious seed by touch alone he gazed still upon the tree, filling his memory. Then he turned swiftly to leave that unhappy place.

* * *

Isildur stirred and opened his eyes. He knew the chamber, but it was not his own. Why had he been asleep here, and for how long? A wave of memory loomed and he struggled to rise, to flee if need be, remembering black spears barring his way and how narrowly he had escaped them. He remembered, too, his errand, and the desperate purpose that had spurred him to elude his foes when indeed he could barely stand because of his many wounds. His hand flew to where the pouch had hung about his heck. Despair overwhelmed him when he found it not.

A cloaked figure rose from a carven seat by the window and approached to stand over him. Isildur turned his face away. “Grandfather,” he began, but Amandil took his hand and, drawing him up, bade him lean upon his arm. Slowly they made their way to the porch that looked out on the private family courtyard. In a sheltered corner a slender sapling grew, and against the bright green of new leaves glowed a single white flower, still partly furled. “You awoke as the flower began to open,” said Amandil. “Unbidden, you saved this thing, so precious to us, the sign of the favor of the Valar. And in the nick of time, for the king has felled the White Tree and burnt it. I perceive that you and the tree are bound together, therefore I place on you a further burden, that in the days of folly and fear before us you will keep it, nut and tree, to plant and tend where the line of Elros shall again be established.”


End file.
